Growing up in Brooklyn

          Yes, I grew up in Brooklyn and loved it so much if I could afford to retire there, I might. If I could afford to retire there I'd live in Bensonhurst because Bensonhurst appears to not have been infected with an influx of crime and entitlement.
       I'd still love to go bike riding on shore road at my old retirement age. Yup, I'm old, but stuck in my teen years mentally. Aches and pains, yes I do but rarely does it stop me from being silly, crazy and having dreams.
        Definitely I'm in need of a newer car, yet how that's going to happen, I have no idea. My car has 233,000 miles on it and I'd need a vehicle that sits upright like a chair. So back to Brooklyn I go in my NY state of mind.
      P.S. 140 was the school on 59th st. and 4th ave-some say it was P.S. 118. My principal Mr/ Vitalo said it was 140 annex so that's what I'll go with. My dreams are to go roller skating once again, pizza in Brooklyn, a knish, a pastrami on Rye, an egg cream, sit on shore road with my friend, my grandchildren, family and or alone.
        Cobblestones streets and brownstones, ice cream cones, stick ball, apartment buildings, stoops and whispers late at night. Hot sweaty guys sitting out, sleeves rolled up or in those undershirts with bra like straps. Rock and roll music coming from transistor radios and kids getting dressed up for Friday night dances at the local churches, mostly OLPH.
          That was all wonderful and just as good was my mother making a huge pot of pea soup with sliced hot dogs . My father made hot rice, like rice pudding, but in those huge pots, so big it barely fit on one burner. There were eight kids so we used giant pots.
       Early Saturday Mornings someone, usually myself or my brother Roger would go to the bakery and deli. We bought enough rolls so we all had two, then at the deli baloney, cheese, ham and genoa salami. My father would clear our old formica table and cut every roll, spread them with mayo and mustard and line up the deli meats. Then he'd make two jugs of ice tea. We' take paper plates and paper cups and a trash bag. Off to Gerritsen beach where we'd drive right up onto the beach and the food would stay out of the sun. After swimming and running all over we were ready to eat around one o'clock, not before. I think about six or seven of us would pile into that old car, no seat belts. The only thing we took was excitement !
           IT seemed by five we were hungry again and then there was John ! John was the best food truck to come on the beach. He was so very dark black and for quite a while people wouldn't buy from him. They bought from a guy named Nick. Nick was short, dirty, dirty fingers, and creepy laugh and filthy truck. Little by little and we were one of the first, people started buying from John. John who stopped at our house on 56th st between 4th and 5th ave, to ask if Roger could work on his truck with pay and all he wanted to eat. John picked him up and dropped him off every day one summer.
         Roger was happy for more than one reason, he was out of the house. This was his summer of Happiness! I was happy for him and John had the best hot dogs ever. He was so clean, honest and just a good guy. Thank you John-well this was just a small piece about Growing up in Brooklyn. I loved it!

Moving Back To Brooklyn

       Is it possible? As expensive as it is to live in New York is it possible to move back ? It isn't like living there from day one and getting into a rent controlled apartment or buying a home for fifty thousand dollars.
       So here I was last night dreaming about moving into a Brownstone across the street from where my friend lived on 57st above 6th ave in Bay Ridge Brooklyn. Who doesn't love a Brownstone? So in my dream my friend is telling me I wouldn't be able to afford it, and I told her, well I'll make a call first and see how much they want. They wanted only 170,000.00

     I told my friend I can do that, no problem. She just laughed. But somehow that dream moved to another area in Brooklyn, wrought iron railings on the brownstone and the neighborhood was so much more crowded with people jamming the sidewalks. In the dream I didn't have any idea where I was but made another phone call. This time I met with a small woman of Chinese descent who told me the house was at a very good price, only 2.3 million dollars. I said thank you, looked at my friend and said no way.

    I guess that the last part of my dream was more reality, a true wake up call as I soon woke up. Thinking about this dream I knew I would not be moving back, although I hope to at some point. I want to wake up, go for a walk on a sidewalk, stop at a diner, grab coffee and a bagel, go to the beach in winter or fall. Maybe summer too:) I want to stand and watch boats in the harbor pass and look at the Verrazano Bridge,  maybe go to the theater, or take a drive to the island. Long Island for those who don't know, "the island".

    The cultures too are what I miss. I love going to Bensonhurst, Italian bakeries, 13th ave, Jewish delicacies, watching the Norwegian  Day parade every year, St. Patty's Day, Polish Kielbasi (but don't care for it) Spanish Rice which I love and much more.

    I'll still go up to visit as I left my heart in Brooklyn, but a bigger piece of my heart first and foremost is with my children who live in other states. So for now and maybe forever this will continue to be my residence, home to my children when they visit and home for me when they visit. It's true, home is where the heart is, anytime any place.

Thank you, Bay Ridge Brooklyn !

        Recently I was taken back in conversations to my old school by someone else who attended a few years after I did. A story was recounted about a teacher and the building itself. But it was more about the people, games and the times, all memories to sustain for many years. I've been back to that old school. It was torn down years ago and replaced by an ugly (in my opinion) brown building with small windows and looks like a prison. I want to go back just to check out-the inside.
      I am thankful for all of the memories affecting me in a few different ways, but ways that, even though changed who I was meant to be, made me. They just made me. Besides how do I know who I was meant to be? How do any of us, until we are that is, until we are.
      One of my favorite memories is skating on cobblestone streets, mainly my own, fifty-ninth street between third and fourth avenues. Neighbors sitting outside watching over us kids, some retired, some moms and dads off work, and some who just took time to be watchful. Those wonderful people who as kids we didn't always think so wonderful. But I think I was a bit different. I loved looking out for the adults as they did for us. My looking out was a bit more selfish.
     For instance, take Mrs. Romano. She was Puerto Rican, lived on the second floor in my building and made the best Spanish rice I ever tasted. Years later working in Mental health there was a department called Senderos (The Path) and I hung out there as much as my time allowed, even volunteered a few groups. Yup, they called me down anytime they were cooking and  made a special plate loaded with Spanish rice. As I took it to my desk I was always asked by other staff, how do you rate? My answer? A mouthful of rice and a smile.
     Well Mrs. Romano would bring rice to just to me and finally one day my mother told her I couldn't have it anymore, that her husband said it wasn't right that only Nancy gets some. That bothered Mrs. Romano so what she did then was make the rice, give me a wink and I would run to the second floor, eating a big bowl on the white marble steps. If I heard my mother call, I'd quickly scrape the bowl and rush downstairs. Immediately my mother could smell something on me and ask if I was up at Mrs. Romanos eating Spanish rice. I lied of course, but what I said was, "no mom, honest, I was just talking to her and her door was open." I knew she knew I was lying and all she would say was,don't let your father catch you.
     Another Spanish family, The Romans lived on the third floor. They dressed better than anyone in the whole building, well except for us of course. We were about the same on dress-up days. Mr. Roman spoke with a lisp, had big ears, perfectly parted hair and his nails were manicured ! His wife wore red lipstick and brightly colored dresses with many prints and flowers. Her high heels were never higher than her husbands height. If I remember right, they had twin boys. I had a lot of respect for this family. They set a tone in me about dress and class that just stuck.(But you should see me now :) ) My first visit to a beauty parlor was on the corner of third avenue and sixtieth street. It was a Spanish place and they loved to work with a lot of hair, which I had.
       Those ladies made me beautiful one day for a school dance, where I danced with Mr. Vitalo, my principal. My hair was dark brown with some lighter highlights and it was curled up high with banana curls draped down to my shoulders. That was the first time I knew I was pretty. Even the ladies kept telling me in Spanish that I was pretty and they took my picture.
     It was the cultures that made Bay Ridge what it was. While many didn't like new cultures move in, enough of others did to make it better. It was my father most of all who didn't like anyone who was of Spanish origin or "colored" as the term was then, yet as mean as he was he made very good friends with a man from Jamaica.
      A bunch of kids were sitting on the stoop when John came up the steps of the Brownstone. John was very dark black and he owned a lunch truck. That truck was so bright white that John stood out on the beach more than anyone. John and an Italian guy each had a lunch wagon and were worlds apart. John was immaculate with himself and his business. Nick, the other guy was, well, horrible. Besides being dirty himself,  his food was to be carefully examined when we ordered hot dogs. The beach makes you hungry that you just get desperate. John lived on fifty-ninth street between second and third avenues.
     When he came to our door we couldn't imagine what he wanted. We already bought plenty from him on the beach. No one could beat his manners, personality and food as well as cleanliness. Well it wasn't long before we found out he wanted one of my brothers to work for him on his lunch wagon. The worst thing he said was, and he can eat all he wants. John told us where he lived so if we wanted we could check him out. But we already knew he could be trusted. Some people are just that way.
       We had games like stoop ball, box ball, hit the stick, stick ball, punch ball, running bases and too many more. There was one thing all games had in common.  No batteries. Brooklyn was battery free. All it took was good people, fire escapes, hot summer nights with music coming from any open window, winters with snow so high we made the best tunnels, mountains and snowball fights on the East Coast. Shovels could be heard scraping the streets, people laughing and helping, cold breaths from walkers and food. The food that to this day just doesn't compare to anywhere else in the world. Thank you Bay Ridge!